The Fusilier Pundit has discovered “a heretofore unknown aphrodisiac for married women.” The recipe, like all love potions, is tricky and complex and requires ingredients some of which are not easily obtained

The most powerful aphrodisiac for a married woman is, strangely enough, a trusted babysitter, or family of babysitters, that will look after the children for a whole weekend. Then leave town for, say, Laramie.

Add two Bombay martinis and a digital camera, and shake. The erotic effects may last well into the following week if you cook dinner and get the kids to bed on time.

Does it work? I can’t say — I don’t know any married women who are willing to let me test it out on them.

…now where is that gym again?

Folks, your humble host, like his namesake, is fond of his imbibables, and his edibles for that matter. The bacchanalia, run properly, would provide suitable high-calorie workouts, but the damn nymphs appear to have all kippered off again. So it’s time for Bacchus to hit the gym.

I maintain that the prospect would be far more attractive if only I could find the right gym.

From Reuters via ABC:

Reproductive physiologist Roger Short, from the University of Melbourne’s obstetrics department, said a few drops of lemon juice can be a cheap, easy-to-use solution to protect women from both HIV and pregnancy.

The juice should be squeezed onto a piece of sponge or cotton wool and placed into the vagina before sex, he said.

“Tequila!”

The loquacious Fred on Everything advises young men that marriage is overrated:

As you ponder snuggling forever with Moon Pie, compare the lives of your bachelor and your married friends. The bachelors come and go as the mood strikes them, order their apartments with squalid abandon, drive Miatas or Harleys if they choose, and live in such pleasant dissolution as is consonant with continued employment. The married guy lives in a vast echoing mortgage beyond his means, drives sensible cars he doesn’t like, and loses his old friends because he isn’t allowed to hang out with them.

Self-help books to the contrary, marriage does not rest on compromises, but on concessions. You will make all of them. Perhaps it doesn’t have to be this way. But it is this way.

Moon Pie has only one reason for marriage: to get her legal hooks into you. She doesn’t think of it in these terms, yet, and she has no evil intentions. She just wants a nice quiet home in the remote suburbs where she can live uneventfully, raise progeny, and keep her eye on you.

An article called The Domme Next Door — San Francisco local color the San Francisco Bay Guardian way!

Vivian lies stretched out on the table in sequined hot pants and matching pasties. At more than six feet in heels, the voluptuous Morgana towers over her in a simple black dress and fishnets, her hair pulled back lest it get caught in the flame. She lights the menacing-looking torch and expertly moves it over Vivian, swiftly tapping the cotton on her chest, stomach, and thighs. She lets a low blue flame linger on each spot for a moment before stamping it out with her bare hand. As she explains, it’s actually the alcohol that’s burning, not Vivian’s lovely skin. Morgana teases the submissive with the heat, dancing the flame over her body. When it does finally make contact with her skin, Vivian arches her back slightly, and small gasps escape from her parted lips. As Morgana concentrates on the flame and Vivian’s responses, her eyes reflect the warm light and gleam with a ferocious intensity. This is one of Morgana’s favorite forms of S-M play, and it shows.

“It’s like a Tupperware party gone very, very bad,” Mistress Morgana says — and I, for one, am not inclined to argue!

After that last cheap blogshot, I suppose I should put something more useful up. How about strengthening international ties by explaining the mystery of “snogging”? Those crazy Brits are always snogging, or talking about it — and it’s never been quite clear to me exactly what that means. I’ve always thought it was a rough synonym for “making out” (or, to use a dying euphemism, French kissing) — but with a more vigorous connotation, sort of like “sucking face” but not quite so crude.

Now all is explained, at Sunday magazine length, in the Guardian Unlimited Observer, and it turns out I’m right:

“And so I had to explain that snogging is a bit like kissing but more aggressive, a bit like sex but strangely far more intimate, and that probably as a result, many people who happily have sex with their partners on a regular basis can’t countenance the idea of snogging them in any way.”

There is lots more. (Original link at archive.org.)

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